


Quicksilver

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, M/M, oddness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: Memories, like quicksilver, plague Hawkeye.





	Quicksilver

**Author's Note:**

> /emphasis/; plot bunny spawned from a comment by Am-Chau, so this one is dedicated to her (and Britt for the beta :))  
> (Comment was on how much Hawk would remember of his mother. The barest slash at the end.)

Hazel eyes, I think she had, even if mine are blue.

And her hair, I think it was wavy, sorta long and brushing her shoulders, and sometimes when it was late and I was supposed to be asleep, I'd wake up, and get scared.

I'd crawl under her arm in bed, the feel of the fuzz on her nightgown caressing my face, and her breathing warm against the top of my head.

It's so hard to remember, sometimes. But then there's these moments, of just flashes really, like lightning. I'll close my eyes as I'm trying to get to sleep at night -- here in Korea -- and the smell of flowers from outside will creep into the tent, and I swear I can almost feel her lavender-scented hands again, pushing my hair off my forehead as she sang me to sleep, her beautiful hazel eyes closed.

Oh, my mother was so beautiful. /That/, I remember -- how could I forget? But sometimes, when it's so late even the shells have stopped falling, I'll open my eyes, terrified just like when I was little.

I'll reach out, looking for what -- I'd say I'm not sure, but I /do/ know -- looking for her hands, the many-times-washed feel of her nightgown, the smile of her eyes and the soothing sound of her breath as it washed over my head, and I think...

...I think that I don't really remember much of my mother, just a few odd scraps of memory, puzzle pieces that don't fit together anymore, like the time when I was six years old and dumped all of my puzzles together, and then tossed them around my bedroom.

My mother was picking up puzzle pieces for weeks afterward, and occasionally I'd find one, and study it, and discover that without its fellows it meant nothing -- was just a tiny fragment of a larger whole, and this is when I miss my mother the most. When those little shards of memory obscure the daylight and the present, and I can feel her within me, but I cannot call up clear pictures...

Just the color of her eyes and the feel of her hair, the sound of her voice when she sang to me, the warmth of her body when I was scared and burrowed deep within her arms.

And the tolerant smile of my father as he watched me fall asleep, cuddled as close to her as I could.

And then it strikes me: the closest I've ever gotten to that security since then was within your embrace in the most suffocating hours of nighttime, when I'd awake in fear, my breathing a harsh, smothering rasp, and you'd sneak into my bunk and hold me, a strong hand on my forehead and another one behind me, supporting the base of my spine, and I remember my mother holding me this way when I was so little and scared, and whenever I was sick.

It's those times that I remember, the times when I most wish I could forget.

First, I lost my mother, and now, I've lost my grasp on you, no matter how hard I tried to hold on.

For the first time in years I'm terrified and completely alone.

~end~


End file.
